


The Living From the Dead

by Wordgrrrl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 09:04:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2423039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordgrrrl/pseuds/Wordgrrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> The instant the pulse ceases, it's no longer about the person who jumped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Living From the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set post-Reichenbach. Like, twenty seconds later...

Shield the living from the dead.

 Sometimes, that is our only goal.

 Everyone thinks a nurse's first priority is to the patient. And it is. 

Unless the patient commits suicide. 

Because if they are really determined to do so, there is nothing we can do to stop it. We can call in the crisis team, but through years of on-the-job training, we know what they don't tell us in med school: If the victim really wants to do it, all we can do is watch it happen.

 The instant the pulse ceases, it's no longer about the person who jumped.

 Our first priority becomes the living. The ones who witness the death, the ones who will see it whenever they close their eyes to sleep, the ones who will replay that awful, awful moment over and over and over again.

 The first responders on the scene turn their backs on the victim with scarcely a glance at the broken body that had been a living, breathing person only moments earlier. We throw our arms wide, trying to make ourselves as big as possible to shield as much of the scene as we can from the public eye.

 We do follow procedure, as we would in any other situation such as this. We call the Yard first. Normally, we ensure a family member is notified, but in this case, it's the man standing on the sidewalk. He says he's a doctor. He says this is his friend. He tries to reach the body, but I pry him away as soon as he clutches the victim's wrist, searching in vain for a pulse. The next thing I know he's swooning into my arms, and I try to lower him gracefully to the ground. We land, hard, on the sidewalk, his body limp against mine.

 All of this, it's an act. An elaborate sleight of hand. But his pain is so real, and as he shudders in my grip, his eyes rolling toward the sky, I feel a wave of anger. 

He is cold in my arms. I ask him what his name is, and it takes his shocky brain a few moments to remember his name is John.

 As he shivers against me, I remind myself I'm just doing my job. I don't ask the questions because I have no hope of knowing the answers.

 Meanwhile, the rest of the team works on their priority: they must get the body out of the public eye. There's no hope for the victim now; it's best to get him out of the way and shield the living. 

He is dropped unceremoniously onto the nearest gurney and rushed inside, down a quiet, sterile-smelling corridor, into the furthest room of the emergency area so that those who are in there for heart attacks or a burst appendix or a broken wrist won't see.

 Before this, someone pulls a blanket over him, keeping his lifeless face uncovered. We don't want to give away too much information; we don't want the other patients to know he is already dead. We want the others to believe there is hope.

 I stay outside with John until I know he is not going to faint in the street. We have called his landlady, and although she weeps hysterically on the phone, she promises to come and fetch him. Someone makes a phone call to make sure a cab is ready outside her door.

 The police have arrived by then, and with relief I realize one of the Yard inspectors knows John; he knows him well enough to break into a run, to grab John by his shoulders and then pull the doctor into a clumsy embrace. The inspector weeps quietly but John does not. He just stands in the inspector's embrace, his arms limp at his sides.

 Eventually, we will send the maintenance crew outside, to hose away the blood from the sidewalk after the police have taken their pictures and gathered their evidence. For now, there is nothing else I can do here.

 As I rejoin my team inside, they are covering the now-naked body (his bloody, torn clothing lies on top of the 'hazardous waste' bin) and this time they pull the sheet up and over the victim's motionless face. I follow procedure, closing the patients' doors so no one can witness the body's final ride through the corridors.

 Inside the morgue, Dr. Hooper waits. Her eyes are red-rimmed, as if she's been crying. She asks if I'll stay just a moment, that she needs to collect herself. She's not as ready as she thought she was. She needs another moment.  She steps out of the examination room and I decide to clean up the body to make it easier. I lower the sheet to mid-chest and am startled by the luminescent blue eyes staring straight ahead. His pupils shrink, reacting to the sudden light, and he turns his gaze to me. I try to smile. He doesn't return it.

 I wonder if he's inadvertently been hurt throughout this elaborate ruse. He shakes his head ‘no’ when I ask. I tell him to lie still- if he falls off the gurney and hurts himself, we'll have a new set of explaining to do in A & E- and leave to fetch a washcloth and a basin of soapy water. When I return he is looking around, his face masked in disbelief and something that looks like terror. His breath is hitching in his throat.

 I pet his cheek and murmur some soothing nonsense, and ask him to just close his eyes and take some nice, deep, slow breaths.

 His eyes slip closed as I stroke the cloth over his forehead, down his nose, across his cheeks. He is covered in blood, but it's not his. It's mine, donated for this elaborate, cruel game.

 The basin water is murky by the time I have washed him. His hair is still sticky, his face pink from my scrubbing and the residue of my blood, but it's definitely an improvement. Throughout it all, he says nothing, just lies quietly, his arms limp at his sides.

 Finally, when I pat his shoulder, he speaks quietly.

 "I heard him," he says. "He said I was his friend."

 "Yes, he did," I agree.

 "You stayed with him?"

 "Yes."

 His lower lip trembles, and he turns away. But not before I hear him whisper, "Thank you."

 Dr. Hooper returns then, nodding to me. She doesn't look much better than she had when I arrived, but she offers a half-hearted smile. "Thank you for staying," she says. And to the man, she says, "Let's get you dressed in some dry clothes, all right?"

 I turn away, my duty done, and walk back to the emergency ward, where my shift has just begun.

**Author's Note:**

> ::: Thank you for reading! :)::::


End file.
